by Kate Walker
Had she undergone a major personality change as a result of her head injury, and was that why Dario had so firmly resisted her? Was she proving to be as much of a stranger to him as he was to her? Or was it simply, as he’d tried to tell her before, that she was pushing too hard and too fast to find her way back to him?
One thing she did know. Whether or not he admitted it, he wanted her as ardently as she wanted him. He’d implied that their marriage hadn’t been all smooth sailing before the accident, but regardless of what had transpired in the past, the sexual attraction between them had survived intact. Why, then, was he so unwilling to give in to it?
She had no answers but, as she freshened up and made herself presentable again, she determined she wouldn’t rest until she found some. Since her husband was so unwilling to provide them and she’d rather eat worms than ask anything of her mother-in-law, she’d rely on her own ingenuity to put together the missing pieces that comprised the jigsaw puzzle of her life. That those answers existed, just a breath out of reach, had been made evident by the brief flash of memory that had assailed her earlier in the evening.
Her opportunity to do some sleuthing came the next day, when Dario left for Milan. Or, more accurately, the next night.
To make sure she didn’t trip over the ever-vigilant Antonia or one of her minions, Maeve waited until after midnight before stealing out of her suite. Her first stop was his study, a room far enough removed from the staff quarters that she was in no danger of alerting anyone to her activities.
Although his desk was littered with the kind of paperwork one would expect of any corporate executive operating out of his home, there was absolutely nothing personal among it that she could see from her cursory investigation. None of the drawers were locked, which suggested they, too, were devoid of anything that might spark a memory, nor did the bookshelves yield any clues. Which left the computer. But even she, desperate though she was to reclaim her past, drew the line at going quite that far. Coming across something that happened to be lying out more or less in full view was one thing; violating his privacy by snooping through his files or e-mail, quite another.
Leaving the study exactly as she’d found it, she crept past the library and the media room, the big formal dining room and the elegant day salon. A few yards farther on, a set of tall double doors blocked her progress, but they opened at her touch and, as she’d suspected, marked the entrance to the master suite.
Like hers, it formed an arm of the villa’s E-shaped floor plan. Unlike hers, it didn’t share the space with two other suites, but occupied the entire wing.
When she touched the electric switch to her left, four wall sconces shed subdued light on a foyer that was almost as spacious as her living room in Vancouver. Oyster-white walls contrasted sharply with a jewel-toned Turkish area rug covering part of the black marble floor. Equally eye-catching were the vibrant colors of a bird-of-paradise bouquet on a table set against one wall. Two doors took up most of the third wall, with an arched opening leading to a sitting room filling the fourth.
She chose to explore the sitting area first. Tastefully furnished with sofas upholstered in crisp black-and-white-striped linen, the usual complement of occasional tables, strategically placed lamps, a sound system and a small ladies’ writing desk, the room’s most striking feature was the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They offered an unsurpassed view across the moonlit sea and gave access to yet another private pool and terrace furnished with table, chairs and sun lounges.
What struck her most forcibly, though, was the complete lack of personal touches within the room. No objets d’art or magazines littered the surface of the tables. No framed photographs graced the walls. No evidence at all, in fact, that anyone had ever actually used the place. Even the writing desk, which might reasonably be expected to contain some item of interest, revealed nothing but a couple of silver pens, a stack of embossed stationery and a small English-Italian dictionary.
Hoping for better luck elsewhere, she returned to the foyer and opened the first door on her left. A short hall led to the master bedroom, which, decorated chiefly in restful shades of misty blue-gray and white, made her ache for all the nights she’d not shared it with her husband.
Filmy draperies hung at the sliding glass doors that gave access to the pool and terrace. White fur rugs were scattered over the floor. In one corner, a potted tibouchina covered with purple blossoms stood beside a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in a soft gray toile depicting exotic birds. On the other side, a tulip-shaped Art Deco reading lamp fashioned from opaque glass stood on a little carved table, with just enough room next to it for a book and maybe a cup of hot chocolate.
In the opposite corner, a black iron floor candelabra shaped like a tree made a bold fashion statement, even though it lacked candles. The other source of light came from black-shaded lamps with heavy brass bases on the nightstands.
And then there was the most dominant feature of the room, the bed itself. Sumptuously proportioned and extravagantly dressed in the finest linens, it brought to mind images so stirring and erotic, Maeve’s stomach turned over in a rolling somersault. Her mind might not remember writhing in ecstasy as she and Dario made love on its thick mattress, but her body certainly did.
Double en suite bath and dressing rooms opened off this room. Body lotions, bath oils and hand-milled soaps, as well as thick velvet towels monogrammed with her initials were meticulously set out in her bathroom. Those clothes not in her temporary quarters were arranged by color in the closets, along with shoes, wide-brimmed hats and other accessories.
But as with the bed and sitting rooms, they struck not a single chord of memory. And to add to the mystery of her past, a second door leading from the bedroom and connecting to who knew what, was locked, as was its counterpart in the foyer.
Disappointed, she retraced her steps throughout the entire suite. Everything was undeniably attractive, but the most important element, the one that made it home, was missing. It was all too eerily immaculate; a residence-in-waiting from which every conceivable flaw had been carefully erased. No trace of human trial and error or interaction remained. Whatever imperfections made up its past had been removed.
And she knew where they were hidden. Behind those locked doors.
Well, at least she’d narrowed down her search. Now all she had to do was find the missing key. But where to look? The most obvious places had turned up nothing. Probably Dario had a safe hidden somewhere, but even if she found it, without knowing the code to open it, she’d be no further ahead.
No, her only recourse lay with her husband. He was the real repository of her history, and one way or another she had to persuade him to share it with her.
As promised, he returned from Milan just in time to shower and change before dinner the following evening. As always, he looked divine in slim-fitting charcoal-gray trousers and a pearl-colored shirt against which his skin glowed like polished copper.
“You seem weary, Maeve,” he commented, holding her at arm’s length and inspecting her critically when he joined her. “There are dark smudges under your pretty eyes.”
Guilt welled up in her. Of course she looked weary! For a start, duplicity didn’t sit well with her. Add to that snooping through the house, then mulling over what might be behind those locked doors, and she’d managed only about four hours of sleep last night. “I missed you,” she said. That much at least was no lie.
He traced his finger over her mouth. “Did you?”
“Yes,” she quavered, finding his touch so wildly exciting that it was all she could do to breathe. “The villa isn’t the same when you’re not here. I hope you’re not planning on going away again anytime soon.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Tomorrow, in fact, to spend the weekend in Tunisia.”
All the lovely warm sensations he so easily aroused vanished as if he’d flung cold water in her face. Not bothering to hide her disappointment, she said, “A man in your lofty position having to work o
n the weekend? Can’t you send someone else in your place?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, filling their champagne flutes from the bottle of Cristal chilling in the wine bucket. “This trip will be strictly for pleasure.”
“I see. Well, I hope you have a very lovely time.” She tilted her chin, praying for pride to conceal her hurt, and took an inelegant but fortifying swig of champagne.
“And I hope,” he continued, amusement silvering his voice at her conspicuously acidic response, “that you’ll come with me.”
She choked as her next mouthful went down the wrong way. Had she heard him correctly? “Go with you?” she spluttered.
“Provided you feel up to it, of course. If not, we’ll forget the whole idea.”
She swallowed an unseemly hiccup. “Surely a more pertinent question is, are you quite sure you’re up to it?”
“Well, who else would I take? You are my wife, after all.”
“I know. It’s one of the few things I am aware of.”
“Then why the hesitation? I thought you’d welcome a change of scene.”
“I would,” she agreed. “It’s your about-face that’s giving me pause. Or is your memory as faulty as mine and you’ve forgotten that, as recently as two days ago, you insisted I’m not yet well enough to face the outside world?”
“I’ve forgotten nothing, but you’ve made so little progress since you came home that I’m no longer sure keeping you secluded is helping your recovery. Perhaps, instead of trying to revive old memories, we should concentrate on forging new ones, and where better to begin than in a place you’ve never been before?” He looked at her expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”
She lifted her shoulders, bemused. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Say yes. Let’s start over and see where it leads us.”
“A second honeymoon, you mean?”
“Sì.”
“As in you and I…um…you know…?”
“Precisely. Starting tonight. It’s either that, or I enter a monastery, because keeping my distance from you is having a most deleterious effect on my health, not to mention my sanity.”
“Is it really?” For the life of her, she couldn’t quite contain her delight. “My goodness, I’d never have guessed.”
Laughing, he reached across the table and grasped her hands. “You certainly would, you little minx. You know exactly the effect you have on me.”
“But I never thought you’d give in to it.”
“Don’t underestimate your power, Maeve. I have missed holding you close while you sleep, missed waking up next to you each morning, and deeply missed making love with you. But not furtively or hastily, as almost happened the other night, which is why, before I left for Milan, I instructed Antonia to prepare our private rooms for your return.”
Resuming her married life was what she’d wanted almost from day one, but now that it lay within her grasp, some of its luster faded. She’d been right in thinking the master wing looked naked under all its chic finery. It had indeed been swept clean. The secrets of the past were not about to be revealed, after all, merely shoved out of sight. And she’d bet her last dollar they were securely under lock and key in that other room.
That a deafening hush had descended over the terrace became apparent when Dario said, “I hoped for a more enthusiastic response, mio dolce.”
“This is all so unexpected, I’m still trying to take it in,” she said, to cover up the suspicions racing around in her head. “I suppose, if I’m really honest, I half expect you to change your mind again.”
Coming to where she sat, he pulled her to her feet, extracted a small leather pouch from his shirt pocket and tipped the contents onto the table. A pair of white-gold wedding bands rolled over the polished surface and came to rest at the base of her wineglass. Taking her left hand, he slipped the smaller of the two on the third finger. “Once again, Maeve Montgomery, I take you for my lawful wife. Is that enough to reassure you?”
The ring, though a little loose fitting, gleamed in the candlelight and felt so deliciously right that for the moment only one thing mattered. She picked up the other ring, slid it on his finger. “And I once again take you, Dario Costanzo, to be my husband.”
He handed her her wineglass and raised his in a toast. “Then here’s to us, mia bella.”
“To us.”
The intensity of his gaze as they sipped made her blush. “I do believe,” he murmured hoarsely, setting both flutes back on the table and reaching for her, “that it’s customary at this point for the groom to kiss his bride.”
Struggling to breathe normally, she nodded. “I do believe you’re right.”
He cupped her face between his palms and lowered his head.
Brushed his lips over hers lightly, fleetingly, then with crushing urgency, as one hand stroked past her shoulders to settle intimately at her waist. “After which,” he said, lifting his head to gaze deep into her eyes, “comes the first dance.”
Slowly he clasped his other hand with hers and guided her across the terrace. They moved together effortlessly, his longer legs accommodating her shorter steps, his lips skimming her temples.
A clock inside the villa rang out the hour, nine musical chimes that briefly drowned out a silken-voiced tenor crooning softly from stereo speakers mounted on the outside wall, then drifted out into the night.
Caught in a sudden powerful tide of déjà vu, Maeve yearned toward her husband. Once before he had held her in his arms, and a chime had echoed across the quiet sea. As the bell-like tone died away, he’d kissed her just so, under the same stars that sprinkled the heavens now. And it had been wonderful. Magical. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
“I remember,” she breathed. “Dario, it’s all coming back to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ALL what?”
“Kissing you like this. Dancing with you under the stars.”
“Nothing unusual in that.” In marked contrast to her excitement, Dario kept his response determinedly casual. “It’s the sort of thing married couples do all the time.”
Except that, in their case, it had happened only once before, the night he’d seduced her. Considering the aftermath, he’d as soon it didn’t all come rushing back in vivid Technicolor now. They wouldn’t stand much chance of starting over if she recalled the embarrassment and hurt she’d suffered at his hands, the day after she’d surrendered her virginity to him. And in his opinion, a fresh start was long overdue.
He was tired of fighting his feelings for her, and of living like a monk despite being tempted beyond human endurance. Among other considerations, walking around with a permanent erection was humiliating, as he’d discovered during his meetings in Milan when his thoughts had repeatedly strayed from the serious business of international finance, to the much more pleasurable contemplation of soon making love to his wife.
Maeve wasn’t helping matters, either, in looking more desirable by the day. Plenty of homemade pasta, good, fresh seafood washed down with excellent local wine, and the mostazzoli panteschi and other pastries she enjoyed so much had eliminated her gaunt angles and restored her delicious curves. Add to that her impeccable sense of style, and he’d have had to be both neutered and brain dead not to desire her.
Plainly put, he missed the wife he’d grown to love, and not just because of the sex or lack thereof. He missed her companionship, her sharp intelligence and her quick wit. He missed how they would lock glances across a roomful of people at a dreary corporate party, and smile in complicit understanding that they’d enjoy their own private celebration at the first opportunity. Yet he’d been forced to keep his distance from her because he didn’t trust himself to be close.
Even worse, Maeve hadn’t seen their son in nearly nine weeks. The longer the separation continued, the harder it would be on everyone. Already she’d missed so much of their child’s development; milestones that would never be repeated. Sebastiano had three teeth now, whic
h was three more than he’d had the last time she’d seen him. He pretty much sat up unaided, and already was trying to crawl by pulling himself over the floor like a baby seal. He gurgled with pleasure every time he saw his little cousin, Cristina, and had bonded with his aunt to the point that he’d cried and reached out for her the last time Dario had tried to pick him up. Tearing him away from the people who’d become his primary family was going to be painful for everyone involved.
That Dario was hugely indebted to Giuliana and her husband, Lorenzo, for helping out by taking the baby into their household and into their hearts, went without saying. But the boy should be riding around on his own father’s shoulders and sleeping in his own crib, with his own mother singing him to sleep at night.
Dario had had enough of feeling more like a visitor than a parent, and more than enough of paying discreet visits to his sister’s, in order to spend a stolen hour or two with his son. It irked him to be put in such a position. No man should have to sneak around to see his own child.
But Peruzzi’s warnings had left their mark. Dario had no way of knowing how Maeve would react when her memory returned, but he did know he wouldn’t be responsible for causing her more grief than she’d already have to face. Whether Yves Gauthier had been friend or lover scarcely counted for much, compared to her having wiped all knowledge of her son from her mind.
Nor was that all. As her husband, Dario was beyond weary of the half-truths and evasions he was feeding his wife. He didn’t handle well not being in control, and if it were up to him, he’d tell her everything, sort out the mess they’d found themselves in and go forward from there. In light of Peruzzi’s warnings, however, it was a risk he dared not take.
Unaware of the direction his thoughts had gone, Maeve sagged against him now. “You believe I’m grasping at straws, don’t you?”
